"Oh?"
"Yeah," I nod. "In fact, if you hadn’t seen me with Antonio—"
"Don’t mention his fucking name."
"Ah! So that’s it?"
"What?" His eyebrows knit.
"You’re jealous."
"You’re wrong." He leans forward until his nose brushes mine. His chest expands, then expands some more. His shoulders seem to grow even wider. His left eyelid twitches. Shit, that isn’t a good sign at all, is it?
"You’re missing something, little Victoria," he growls.
"What?"
"I am not the one with everything to lose. You are."
Anger sweeps up my spine. I draw back my shoulders, then squeeze my thighs together, locking his hand between my legs. "The only thing I have to lose here is the fact that you haven’t fucked me, so why don’t you, and be done with it, hmm? Then we can bury this chemistry and get on with our lives. In fact," I bring my hand up and grip the tent at his crotch, "I’ll help you along. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To fuck me out of your system? To have me until you get tired of me? So why don’t you do it and cast me aside? That way, we don’t have to go through this sham of a wedding or the arrangement of you becoming my Dom. Why pretend there is any relationship possible between us, when really, we hate each other? Fuck me already, and we can call it quits."
Don’t say yes. Don’t. Don’t let me walk away. Please don’t.
He hauls me up by his grip on my pussy so I am perched on tip toe. His nostrils flare as he surveys my face, "No."
I blink. "No?"
He nods, "I have a better idea."
"What?"
"I’ll quiz you about The Beatles. If you get every answer right, I’ll let you leave. If you get even one wrong… I…" He massages my clit through my clothes. My sex shudders and a tingling emanates from his touch, sweeping aside the cold, heating my blood, leaving a fiery, tangled, throbbing need in its wake. Shit. Say it, damn it. Complete your sentence.
He twists his hand with the right torque that his heel slams into the swollen bud of my clit. A trembling sweeps up my legs, past my waist, and my nipples pebble until I can’t stand it anymore. I am one yearning mass of need, waiting to be filled by him. His cock. His fingers. His tongue. "Please," the word bleeds from my lips.
A fierce satisfaction grips his features.
Then he releases me so quickly that I fall back against the wall.
The climax instantly ebbs. "No," I gasp. "Not again. You can’t do this."
He lifts one eyebrow. "You bet I can."
He ambles back, until he’s propped up against the opposite end of the cage. His big body takes up almost the entire breadth of the constricted space. Shit. I flatten my back into the barrier behind me.
"What now?"
"Now, I ask the questions. Remember Gigi, one wrong answer." His grin widens, "One mistake and you lose all say in what’s going to happen to you."
"For…how long?"
"For as long as I deem necessary to tame you, of course."
"You’re crazy."
"Are you ready?"
No.
No.
I square myself holders. "Fine. Go ahead."
He nods.
" John Lennon and Paul McCartney sang backing vocals on which Rolling Stones single??"
"It was called." I frown. "We Love You."
"Correct." He smirks. "Next question," he pins me with his gaze "The Beatles couldn’t read music. True or false?"
"True," I reply.
"What's your favorite color?"
"Blue," I blink.
He clicks his tongue, "Don't lie to me. Tell me the truth and I won't catapult you off a cliff."
"You're a Monty Python fan as well?" I can't stop the smile that curves my lips.
"I ask the questions," he smirks, then waggles a finger at me, "and you haven't answered the last one."
I throw up my hands, "Fine, red. My favorite color is red." I stiffen, "And did you just trick me into revealing something personal about myself?"
"Only I get to ask the questions, remember?" He angles his head. "How long did it take The Beatles to record their first album?"
"24 hours." I wring my fingers together. What's he getting at? Why is he sneaking in questions about my personal preferences in between?
"What’s the make of your favorite car?"
"Maserati." I scowl, "Not fair, why do you even care what—?"
"What was the name of the last album by The Beatles?"
"Abbey Road."
"Your favorite flower?"
"Lilies." I purse my lips, "Honestly, you could have asked, I'd have—"
”John Lennon changed his middle name from Winston to Ono after marrying Yoko Ono. True or false?"
"True."
"Not bad, I have one last question for you." He grins something fierce and it feels like a cold hand touches my heart. He’s trying to throw me off kilter, trying to ruin my concentration. That’s all it is. Focus Victoria. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t—
"When is Beatles Day celebrated?" He tilts his head.
"Umm.." I chew on the inside of my cheek, "It's celebrated on June 25th?"
“Ehhhhh!” He makes the irritating sound of a gameshow buzzer and says "Wrong."
"What?" My jaw drops.
"You got that wrong."
"Can’t be." I stiffen.
"It is."
"You’re messing with me," I snarl.
"I’m not."
"I don’t believe you."
"Check the answer on your phone."
I bend, pull the phone from my bag, "I don’t have a signal."
"I do." He hands me his phone, which I notice is logged into the hotel Wi-Fi. Why the hell hadn't I thought of that?
I pull up the search engine on his phone, then tap in my question. The screen fills with links. I open the first one, read it. Beatles Day is celebrated on 10th July, not to be confused with Global Beatles Day.
He grabs his phone from my hand, shoves it in his pocket.
My heart begins to thud. "No," I swallow. "It can’t be."
"It’s true,
